Poem: Our Job by M. Forrest

Like crinkled cream with raspberries flushed
Be food for me, bright rose, upthrust
   Against my lintel. I will sing
Your loveliness when you are dust,
And when the wind forgets your
breath Rhyme shall recall it out of death.

Oh, shaven grasses, let me lie
   Where your bruised blades hold Morning fast,
And the long shadow of the pine
   Is like a plume across you cast!
When you in sallow hayricks lean
I shall make glory of your green.

Oh, orange lily, bend your head
   And scorn me not as I go by.
Between the covers of a book
   Your majesty some day shall lie!
Even the bee that thrums by me
Brings harvest to my granary.

Rose-petals that have lost their scent,
   Green grass-blades clipt in summer sheaf,
The grey bibliophile some day
   May take my book and turn a leaf
From dusty shelves to set you free,
Gold lily and adventurous bee!

So, though I wear a shabby coat,
   And strum a lyre with rusty strings,
A thought makes flowers out of words,
   And other things than bees have wings.
The green of bannered grass that dies,
Mere poets may immortalise.

First published in The Bulletin, 24 December 1925

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on June 16, 2007 10:25 AM.

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